Raising Mycroft Holmes
by AlessNox
Summary: Why does Mycroft resent his mom. How could a normal woman raise such genius children. A glimpse into the childhood of one Mycroft Holmes.
1. Genius

Little Mycroft Holmes, three years old, sat on the rug reading a copy of The Illiad. He was dressed in a little white suit with a white waistcoat and a blue plaid bow tie. Mr Holmes entered the room having just parked the car. He smiled down at the boy.

"The Illiad? My, my, the boy is ambitious. Most children can't even read at three, and he's starting in on the Illiad. Indeed, Mycroft is a clever boy."

"Indeed," Mummy Holmes echoed frowning down at him.

Mr Holmes looked from his wife to the boy, and then back to his wife again. "You're troubled. Why? Mycroft was wonderful at the photographers. He sat perfectly still when asked, and he didn't spill any of his apple juice on his suit even though you insisted on him wearing the white one. He's well behaved, incredibly intelligent, and our son. For a first attempt, I think that we did pretty well at the genetic lottery. So why are you staring at him with such...calculation in your eyes?"

"Mycroft isn't just intelligent. He's a genius. I'm having enough trouble with this mothering thing as it is. I don't know if I am up to raising a genius."

"Of course you can, dear. He's a genius, you're a genius. It shouldn't be a problem."

"I'm not a genius, dear, although I like to pretend that I am. I am just very, very, good at Mathematics. Being skilled in one area does not a genius make."

Mr Holmes hugged his wife's shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry dear. Everyone thinks that they will be a bad parent, but the kids turn out alright in the end. "

"I'm sure that's what Mr. Hitler said to his wife."

"You're over reacting, my dear!"

"He's a genius. Our child is an actual genius. How long will it be before he realizes that he can outsmart us? How long before he starts down the road of deception that will ultimately lead to him trying to take over the world."

"He's not going to take over the world. If I had known that you would react this way, I would never have taken you to see that Bond film. Being a genius doesn't mean that he will become a super villain."

"How do you know?"

Mr Holmes gave a great sigh. "He is our son, and we love him. That should be enough to make him grow up right."

"But what if it's not?"

"Relax. Mycroft will turn out fine. For all we know, this early reading might just be a stage that he's going through. Besides, we might be mistaken. He might not really be a genius."

Mrs Holmes shook her head, her lips pinched into a frown.

"Well, it's time for him to take his nap don't you think? I'm sure that he's ready to get out of that uncomfortable suit. Come here son." Mr Holmes bent down and put out his arms. Mycroft stared up at him for a moment before rising to his feet, his book clasped against his chest. Mr Holmes picked up the boy. "How did you like the book, Mycroft?"

"I liked the part where everybody ate the flowers. Is that what happens when you eat flowers, Daddy? Mummy won't let me eat them, so I don't know."

"No son, most flowers don't do anything to you when you eat them. Even so, you should listen to your mother. If you ate the pretty flowers, she wouldn't have them to look at."

Mr Holmes took the book and handed it to his wife before he took Mycroft to his room and laid him down for a nap. When he returned, his wife was sitting in her chair, with the book on her lap. Her frown was even greater than before.

"What is it now?" he asked.

In reply she simply held the book out to him. He picked it up and glanced at the pages before looking up at her with surprise in his eyes. The words were all in Greek.

2.  
The problem of raising a genius child was one that Mrs Holmes tackled with abandon. She bought piles of parenting books, reading each one and taking notes to cross check for facts. She looked through newspapers for accounts of genius children and traced their lives and careers. Her studies only made her more agitated.

Mr Holmes made her a cup of tea one evening as she sat in her arm chair so exasperated at the book that she had been reading that she flung it across the room. "Thank you, dear," she said as she took a cautious sip. Her eyes closing in relief.

"So," Mr Holmes asked, "How are the parenting studies going?"

"Horrible!" she said, "Couldn't you tell by the trajectory of that last book that I threw? The authors all contradict each other. The advice tends to come in waves, with periods of disciplinarian teachings followed by liberalism: Spank them, don't spank them, give them gifts, never give them gifts, it makes no logical sense. Also, the genius children that I have followed have no consistent methods by which they were raised. Some had parents who were attentive to their every whim. Some ignored them completely. The one thing that I could resolve, was that in eighty eight percent of the cases the genius children turned out completely unsociable and marginally insane. Most distressing is that a genius child is forty percent more likely to die and a young age, and eighty percent more likely than the general populace to make an attempt on their own life. What are we going to do?"

"Darling, I know this distresses you, but we'll just have to do our best."

"And if our best isn't good enough? What then?"

"You're not going to find an answer from strangers on how to raise our child. We'll have to find our own way."

"Mrs Holmes looked up at him then and raised her eyebrows. You're right. These aren't the books that I should be reading." She rose to her feet, walked over to the bookshelves and pulled out a book on Ancient Greek philosophy."

"What are you doing?"

"Going to a source that I do trust. Why did I imagine that contemporary authors would have any idea of how people work? I should return to the classics. Give me a few weeks dear and I'll have solved this problem."

"He's a child, not a mathematical theorem, dear."

She turned away from him and continued reading.

3.  
Mycroft was in his high chair eating chicken and carrots. Mycroft enjoyed eating. He ate carefully so that he didn't spill his food, a skill that his father always praised him for. When he had finished, his father took up his empty plate and handed him a small cake with banana icing. The boy smiled up at him, and he smiled back. They both turned at the sound of Mummy Holmes banging open the door.

"I've got it!" she said.  
"Got what?"  
"The answer to how to raise Mycroft."  
"Oh that again? Alright, tell us the plan."  
"Well first that will have to go," she said snatching the cake out of Mycroft's hands.  
"What are you doing, dear? Mycroft has been good. He deserves a treat."  
"Are you undermining my authority? This plan won't work unless we are both on board with it."  
"What plan? You'd best fill me in on this, completely."  
"Well, we can't talk in front of him. Take him to his room first."  
Mr Holmes sighed and then he unstrapped the boy before carrying him out of the room.  
"Can I have the cake now?" Mycroft asked.  
"I don't know dear. I think...no. Maybe another time."  
"But it was banana, my favorite."  
"I know, dear. Now be a good boy and play in your room while Mummy and I talk about things."  
He placed the boy on the floor of his room and closed the door. Mycroft stood looking around at his toys and his books, but he couldn't forget the cake. He wanted the cake. He quietly opened the door and walked back toward the kitchen, hoping that they wouldn't see him. When he reached the kitchen, the door was ajar. He was just about to push it open when he heard his parent's voices. So, he sat down beside the door and waited for them to leave.

"What's all this about finding the answer, and why didn't you let Mycroft have his cake? He's been looking forward to it all day."

"Well, we wouldn't want to raise a glutton."

"A glutton? He's a child!"

"And where do you think bad habits start? No, it's all right here in this book. You were right that I should look to classics for the answer. I found it in Plato's Republic."

"I don't remember telling you that two thousand year old books would tell us how to raise our child."

"Hush, listen! It says, 'The philosopher will have the quality of gentleness. And this, also, when too much is indulged will turn to softness, but if educated rightly will be gentle and moderate.' "

"So, my dear, let me get this right. Are you planning on educating our son as a philosopher?"

"Yes, it is the best way to help him understand how to properly use his intellect. And the instructions are all laid out here in detail. It will need a bit of updating. I would rather have him take dancing lessons than gymnastics, but the music training. That we can start right away."

"Music lessons sound like a good idea, but I still don't see why he can't have his cake."

"We mustn't encourage overindulgence. Besides, Homer never mentioned sweets."

"There's such a thing as going too far, you know."

"Do you have a better idea? Of course, you don't. Let me read through it again, and then I'll write up the plan for his education."

"But... is this a good idea?"

"Of course it is. Ninety percent of the time when a man goes bad they blame his parents for not being attentive enough in his education. I will dedicate my life to making sure that my child is raised to be a proper citizen."

"But those aren't instructions for raising a citizen. Those are the instructions for raising a ruler."

"And why shouldn't my son be raised like a ruler? Plenty of those in power are idiots with no idea how to rule correctly. I see nothing wrong with raising our son as a philosopher king. I'm going to my study. I have a lot to think about. And you need to get to work."

"To work? Doing what?"

"Getting rid of the sweets in the house for one. It's simplicity and discipline for Mycroft from now on. Oh yes, and throw out all of your Ian Fleming books."

"What? I like those books!"

"Darling!"

"Okay, okay." Mr Holmes sighed, and then opened the cabinet to fish out the cakes and put them in a bag.

Mycroft rose to his feet and hid behind the window curtains as his mother past. Then he returned to the kitchen door and watched as his father gathered up all of the puddings and sweets in the house and took them away.


	2. Classical Education

4.

"He has to go to school!" Mr Holmes said. "It's long past time that he went. He's been reading since he was two."

"My point exactly, what possible thing can they teach him that he doesn't already know?" Mrs Holmes said as she tore up the letter from the local state school and threw it in the bin.

"This isn't me fighting you dear. It's the law."

"Those laws weren't made for children like ours. Mycroft is not a normal boy. Can you imagine what it would be like for him at school, among children who are so much his inferior intellectually?"

"Then we can get him put into a higher grade."

"And have them beat him up for being different?"

"But, he needs to learn to get along with children his age."

"Why? They aren't like him. They will never be like him."

"I haven't said anything before, because I know how much this means to you, but you can't raise our son in isolation. He has to learn to interact with other people."

"He interacts with his piano teacher."

"No, I mean he has to learn to interact with other children."

"No."

"You can't fight the state."

"Watch me."

5.

Mycroft was coughing when the woman saw him. Mother had told him not to get out of bed when the woman came, but he had dressed in advance and even put on his tie. He was nervous. The woman had blond hair pulled back in a bun and a serious face. She transformed it into a fake smile when she saw him. Then she entered the room and sat down in a chair at his bedside.

The window was open, and Mycroft could hear the birds outside on the grounds, but it was his mother's presence which dominated his thoughts. She was wearing her public face which had a slight smile, but her hands were tense. He knew that he was an actor in this drama, and he must be perfect or something horrible would happen. What, exactly, he wasn't sure. He coughed again. Whatever mother had put in his tea had made it hard to breathe, and he tried over and over to cough it out.

"Hello, Mycroft," the woman said holding out her hand. "My name is Mrs Weston."

Mycroft looked at her hand, and then down at his own. He had coughed into his handkerchief, but some of it had spilled over onto his fingers. He wiped them, but that just spread even more germs on them. The woman realizing his distress put down her arm, and sat back in her chair. "Well then, I've come here to see how you are, and to ask you if you would like to go to school. You are four years old, aren't you?

He glanced at his mother, and then realizing he was doing it, he looked down. "Well, my birthday is in a few months. I'm almost five."

"Really? Then I'm not a moment too soon. It must be boring for you being home all alone. Wouldn't you like to go to school and meet other children your age?"

"No, not particularly."

"You don't? But I'm sure you want to learn things. You wouldn't want to end up stupid would you?"

Mummy jumped at that. Sitting up in that stiff way that she did when someone had offended her. Mrs Weston hadn't noticed.

"I'm not dumb. And I do get an education. My mother teaches me, and there are tutors."

"Really? So what kind of things do you study?"

"I study music, piano and cello. And there is an archery teacher who comes once a month. But during the day my mother oversees my lessons."

"Really, and what subject do you like best?"

"Languages."

"You study languages? How nice. Which one are you studying?"

"French for one. My grandmother taught me to speak it ages ago, but I study grammar. I've been reading Voltaire. Then there is Italian, and Spanish, and Welsh."

"My! So many."

"And German. And we listen to records of other languages to get an idea for how the sounds are produced. I particularly like tagalog. And I study Greek and Latin of course."

"Ah, is that all?"

"No. I'm trying to find a tutor for the languages of the Indian subcontinent, but Mr. Jones at the butcher shop has horrible pronunciation. He suggested his cousin who is a taxi driver, but he's out of town at the moment."

"Do you think that it is good to have him exposed to so many things so early? What about the basics."

"What basics do you mean?"

"Reading, writing, social skills, maths."

"Oh mom has been teaching me maths since I was little," Mycroft said. "I quite like algebra and geometry."

"Of course, who wouldn't?" Mummy Holmes said.

The teacher glanced at Mrs Holmes and then to the boy. "Let me get this straight. You are four, and you are studying Algebra?"

"And Geometry. I've proven a number of theorems. Euclid is fun, don't you think?"

"Euclid?"

"You do know Euclid, don't you? I thought that you were supposed to be a teacher."

"Well, I am but. My, you are forthright in your opinions aren't you?"

"Did I say something wrong? Why did you clench your teeth when I said that? Did I make you angry questioning your knowledge? What happens to students who object to your teaching? Do you beat them?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then what do you do when someone makes you mad? Do you spank children? I have heard that such things happen in school. If I said that in school would you spank me?"

"No, we don't abuse children in our school."

"What will you teach me then?"

"All kinds of things, like art and reading and ...uh."

"Art? Do you have paintings in the school?"

"Why yes, the students paintings are often on display."

"Not students paintings, real ones. I've been reading about Picasso and Van Gogh. Do you have any of their paintings?"

"Not in reception, but when you get older, the higher schools will sometimes visit an art museum."

"I can do that myself without going to school."

"But don't you want to meet children your own age?"

"Why?"

"To make friends."

"Are you saying that you are not my friend?"

"I ...uh.."

Mycroft coughed again and then reached out for the glass of water at his bedside.

"My son needs his rest, if you don't mind us returning to the study."

"No, I don't mind."

The woman left then. Mycroft waited until their footsteps faded away before going to the bathroom to wash his hands. He went back to his room then and looked out of the window at the bright day. The birds continued their chirping. The front door opened, and the woman left. He watched the car drive away, and then his bedroom door opened. "Come into the kitchen Mycroft," Mummy said.

He rose from the windowsill and adjusted his tie. He wasn't sure how he had done. When he entered the kitchen he found on the table in front of his chair, a glass of milk, and three lemon biscuits. "That was very good." she said.

"Who was that woman, Mummy?"

"She wanted to see if you were being mistreated."

"Mistreated? You mean she thought that you beat me?"

"No. But other people go to school at your age."

"Why shouldn't I go to school mother?"

"School is for ordinary people, Mycroft. People who will have ordinary jobs and ordinary, dull lives. Now finish that up. Your cello teacher will be here in less than an hour."

"Yes, Mummy."

6.

Mr Holmes loosened his bow tie and turned toward his wife who sat on the edge of the bed. He smiled slyly as he walked toward her. Then he kissed her, his right hand sliding up her leg toward her thigh.

"Darling, we have to talk." she said.

"What about?" he said as he kissed her neck.

"About Mycroft."

"He's asleep. I just checked on him." He unbuttoned his shirt and reached around her to unzip her dress. He was just starting on her bra when she said.

"Do you think that it's time that Mycroft had a little brother or sister?"

Mr Holmes froze. He pulled his head back. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I stopped taking the pill a few weeks ago."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No! Last week you had that problem with your back, and you've been busy with work. This is the first time since then that it has come up."

"Don't you think that you should have told me if you were going to try to have a baby?"

"I'm telling you now!"

Mr Holmes sat down. "So what started all of this?"

"I was watching Mycroft. He doesn't like me to see him playing. He's always trying to show how adult he is, but he plays with his stuffed animals when I'm not watching."

"Yes."

"And I heard him say that he wished that he had someone real to play with."

"We could send him to school."

"No. At least not yet. But, if he had a little brother or sister. He'd have someone else like him. He wouldn't be so lonely."

"There's no guarantee that we will have another genius child."

"We don't have to. A little brother or sister would be enough to show him how to care for another person."

"Couldn't we just give him a dog?"

"You know that I just got the couch upholstered. We can't have a puppy."

"But you think a baby would be less messy?"

"You told me before we were married, that you wanted to have two children."

"That was before I learned how hard it was."

"So you don't think that we should have another child?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what do you think?"

"You're honestly asking my opinion?"

"Of course! It would be your child after all."

"You never ask me how to raise Mycroft."

"I'm sorry, but I don't want his education plan corrupted."

"So I corrupt things?"

"I saw you sneaking Mycroft that chocolate pudding the other day."

"He's a child, not a priest. I swear, sometimes I think we are raising him like he's _Little Orphan Annie_."

"You know what I said about showing him the wrong kind of stories. That can't be good for him."

"Why not? It shows the plight of the poor, and deliverance from evil."

"And then the girl's reward is a life of overindulgence where money is thrown at her. My God! her adopted father's name is Warbucks. He obviously was a war profiteer."

"We shouldn't be so hard on him. He's just a child."

"You haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Should we consider having another child?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I think it's a good idea."

"Alright, then carry on."

"Carry on with what?"

"You know," she said pulling the dress off of her shoulder."

"Well, I'm not in the mood anymore."

"But..."

"Goodnight, dear." He climbed into bed and turned out the bedside lamp as Mrs Holmes, disappointedly pulled off her dress, and hung it up, before turning out the light and going to bed.


	3. Sherlock

7.

"It's a boy. Look Mycroft, this is your little brother."

Mycroft looked at the bald crying thing in his father's arms. His face was scrunched up and red. "He's crying. What does he want?"

"He probably wants his mother, but she'll be a few more moments. The nurse is with her."

"His fingers are so little."

"Yours were that little too when you were born."

"I can't imagine it."

"It's true."

"Will he keep crying? I thought that he'd be happy."

"He will be, especially with such a nice big brother as you."

"How do you know that I'll be nice? He's so small, he can't even walk."

"We'll teach him that. Well, do you like him?"

"I don't know."

"You'll learn to love him soon enough, and he will love you."

"Will he?"

"Of course he will, he's your brother."

"She's ready for you to see her now," the nurse said.

They walked into the room. Mummy Holmes was lying in the hospital bed. She was tired but smiling. Mr Holmes placed the baby in her arms and he stopped crying immediately as he stared fixedly at her face.

"I've read that babies can't really see that well when they are born," Mycroft said.

"He sees his Mummy," Mr Holmes replied.

"How can he tell that it's her? How can you tell that it's not some other baby that we picked up from the nursery, Mummy?"

"I know my baby anywhere, and he knows me. We have been the same person for nine months."

Mycroft moved closer and looked down at the baby. It was cuter now that it wasn't crying. It turned it's head and stared directly at Mycroft. He stared back. "What is it called?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"I don't like the name William," Mycroft said.

"I'm sorry son but it's already printed on the birth certificate," his father said.

"Then, can we call him Sherlock?"

"Sherlock and Mycroft. The names do sound good together. Sherlock it is then."

"Hello, little brother. Hello Sherlock." The baby looked up at him again, and Mycroft smiled.

8.

Mr Holmes bustled about the place covering the walls and the fireplace with tinsel. Sherlock was sitting before the fire playing with his Rubik's cube.

"You're humming again, darling. Can you stop it?"

"It's Christmas, dear, if there is any day of the year that I should be allowed to hum, then it would be Christmas."

"Well, alright."

"Mother, can we have a Christmas Pudding?"

"A what dear? Where did you hear of such a thing?"

"It was in the newspaper, mama."

"And where did you get a newspaper?"

"The fish was wrapped in it."

"You've no need to go messing with any smelly old fish."

"But dear, a pudding would be nice. And it is Christmas." Mr Holmes said turning toward them. He was dressed for the season wearing green pants and a bright red bow tie.

"You already talked me into buying peppermints this year. I think that we are doing quite enough, thank you."

Sherlock rose to his feet and took Mycroft's airplane off of his stack of gifts.

"Give me that back!"

"Mycroft, let your brother see that."

"But he'll break it!"

"You should share. We are a family. You mustn't be so obsessed with personal property."

"So it's alright if I watch Dad's television then?"

"Certainly not."

Mycroft took a book off of Sherlock's stack and passed it to him in an attempt to get his airplane back, but Sherlock would not relinquish it. Mycroft became increasingly irritated, and he threw the book down on the ground.

"Mycroft!" his mother said, "Please control your temper."

"But...what's wrong with him anyway? He's two and he can't even read yet."

"Everyone doesn't proceed developmentally at the same rate."

"You mean that it's normal for some people to be stupid?"

"Son!" Mr Holmes said. A rare outburst for him.

"I'm sorry Daddy."

"Well, I'm going to check on dinner. You should go up and finish dressing."

"Do I need to wear a tie?"

"Yes."

As soon as the door closed, Mr Holmes reached into the decorations on the mantle and pulled out a marshmallow chocolate, shaped like a snowman, which he handed to Mycroft. Mycroft smiled and hid it in his pocket as he went to the door. He turned back when he heard a cracking sound. Sherlock had broken the wing off of his new airplane.

9.

The school seemed large and imposing from the front drive. The manicured, green, grounds were full of boys and their parents preparing for the new school year. Mummy Holmes adjusted Mycroft's tie as they stood beside the car. His father was removing his bags from the boot.

"What do you want me to do, Mother?"

"What do you mean, 'What do I want'?"

"What should I tell them. Should I say that I have been sick? Should I hide that I know Latin?"

"Why on Earth would you want to do that?"

"But you didn't want me to go to school before."

"Of course I didn't want it, but unfortunately, I have no choice in the matter."

"So what should I do?"

"Learn, socialize, do all those things that the other children do, but remember who you are. You are not an ordinary person. You are destined for greatness. Rise above common pursuits and petty grievances. You are not the dot on the graph. You are the one who draws the line. So try to enjoy yourself, and don't forget to call Mummy on the weekend. You have to stay here for the first ten days, but we'll take you home the following weekend." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Now go on."

As Mycroft walked up to the school, he was surrounded by many boys in identical uniforms, some were the same age, and some were older. He followed them into the hall and stood around looking at the wood paneled walls and the chairs. Someone touched his shoulder.

"Hello."

Mycroft turned to stare at the brown headed boy, only then remembering his manners, "Hello."

"My name is Robert Chatham. Who are you?"

"Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes."

"This your first term?"

"Yes."

"Mine too. My brother David has been here for two years though. That's him over there with the older boys. You can call him Chatham major and I am Chatham minor. Well, that's what he told us they would call me. You can just call me Robert if you want. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I have a little brother."

"Is he school age?"

"No, he's still a baby."

"But one day he'll come here, and then you can be Holmes the elder."

"Perhaps, but I don't think that he'll be coming here."

"Why not?"

"Well, he's not very smart. He's been able to hold a pencil for a year now, and he still hasn't mastered long division."

Robert laughed, "You're funny Mycroft. Let's hurry up, they're about to make the address, and I hear that the puddings on the first day are the absolute best!"

"Puddings?"

"Yes, they should have two kinds of puddings and three cakes, at least that's what my brother tells me. It takes a bit of getting used to, he said, but I think that you'll really like it here."

"I think that I may," Mycroft said following him inside.

10.

Sherlock was five. He stood in the living room in his footy pajamas with a stuffed bear under his arm. "Where is Daddy? He was going to read to me."

Mrs Holmes sat at her desk, an array of bills laid out before her. "He had to stay late at work. Just go to bed."

"But Mummy, the monsters come out of the closet if you don't read to them?"

"Where on Earth do you get these ideas, Sherlock?"

"Mummy, can you read to me?"

"I'm doing the accounts. Mycroft!"

Mycroft was sitting in the large armchair. He unfolded himself from the seat and rose to his feet. He had grown taller in his years at school, and wider from the very good dinners served there. He walked over to his mother and stood beside her.

"Yes, Mummy, what is it?"

"Go read to your brother."

"But I was studying!"

"You can study later. Your brother needs someone to read to him. Go do it!"

"Yes Mummy," he said slinking out after Sherlock as he ran up to his room.

When he reached the room, sherlock was already in bed with his bear beside him.

Mycoft strolled in. "So what have you been reading?"

Sherlock pointed at the table. There was a book with a blue cover. It read The boy's book of moralistic tales.

Mycroft picked it up and leafed through the pages. "That's what you've been reading?" he said. Sherlock nodded. "No wonder you can't sleep. These stories are boring. Wait just a minute."

Mycroft ran out of the room and returned with his book bag. He closed the door behind him and pulled out a book with a red cover. There was a skull and crossbones on it. He handed the book to Sherlock who stared at the skull a strange smile coming over his face that grew as he opened the book to look at the pictures of sailing ships and swords, and blood.

"Great pirate stories?" Sherlock said. "What is it about?"

"It's about pirates, you idiot!"

"I know that, but what do they do?"

"They sail the seven seas and capture other ships stealing from them. They become incredibly wealthy, and some of them set themselves up as rulers on islands. They bury treasure, and fight dirty, and do all sorts of fun things."

"I don't think that Mummy will like me reading this kind of story."

"Then don't tell her that we're reading it. Alright, where shall we begin? I know. The story of Redbeard, the pirate. _'Go tell your king, he is the king of the land, but I am the king of the sea.'_"

11.

It was a bright September day, when the Holmes family arrived on the grounds of the school as they had so many years ago when Mycroft had first come here. Sherlock was the first out of the car, followed by his mother. Mrs Holmes looked down at her youngest child and brushed a tear from her eye. Then she bent over to adjust his tie. "Sherlock will you stop fidgeting?"

"I don't like ties."

"Well you'll have to wear one from now on. I suppose that I should have been more strict with you and made you wear a tie to dinner like I did with Mycroft. Now stand still, I'm almost done."

Sherlock jumped away as soon as she was done. He looked up at the building surrounded by sculpted trees and flowered vines. "So, I'm to live here now?"

"Part of the time. You'll come home on the weekends," his mother said.

Mycroft climbed out of the car and stood looking up at the school. His chest puffed up, and he smiled. Sherlock looked at him. Then he took his bag and started walking toward the entrance. Mycroft walked beside him, matching his pace.

"Why won't you be coming to school with me, Mycroft?"

"I can't. You know I'm at Harrow now."

"But I don't want to go to boarding school."

"It's better than that horrid state school that they made you go to before."

"But what if they don't like me?"

"What should it matter if they like you or not? It is a simple matter of observation to find their motivations, then you can help them get what they want, and they will be happy to call you a friend."

"I tried to help people in my old school, but when I told Terry Jones that he didn't have what he wanted for lunch because his mother was too drunk to realize that she had used butter instead of jam, he hit me."

"Well, it might be a good idea to tread carefully when talking about other's families."

"But you just said...Do you have any useful advice to give me, Mycroft?"

"Only that you mustn't talk to Mr Williams until he has had his first cup of coffee in the morning, and that the deserts today are sure to be excellent. I might just pop into the kitchen and see if they can spare a slice of cake for an alumn."

"So, that's why you came to see me off, for the cake? I should have known that it was not concern for me."

"Of course I am here for you! While it is true that I also plan to talk to some of my former instructors and get a few introductions, I had to come and watch you get your first taste of freedom. You will finally be able to grow now that you are out from under Mummy's domineering thumb."

"You're mad at Mummy? What for?"

"Too many things to name at this time. I keep a file on my computer, and update it twice a year. The very first thing on the list is that banana cake."

"Cake! is that all that you think of Mycroft? You are fat enough as it is."

Mycroft frowned. Then he patted his brother on the shoulder. "Well, I see Mr Williams on the lawn, so I'm off. Have a good year at school, brother dear. I'll keep in touch."

"Don't bother. I won't be sending you any desserts by post."

Mycroft smiled at him and then walked stately across the lawn, while Sherlock filtered into the building behind the other new boys.


End file.
